The Scarlet Wolfsbane
by Mr. Higgs-Boson
Summary: Werewolves, romance, the French Revolution-love and rivalry, political intrigue.
1. Chapter 1

**Midnight**  
**September 27, 1790**  
**Deuss du Dévaire, France**

Alone on the plains, the autumn night unusually eerie, Lady Alix, Comtessa du Dévaire, was intensely aware of the dangers she faced as she fled the safety of her father's chateau. She shuddered at the thought of a violent, anonymous death in the property surrounding her family estate. Running away was a desperate move, but she no longer had a choice. Her hesitation had only compounded the problem. This was her final opportunity to take control of her future.

There was absolutely no way that she could ever be coerced to accept her father's plans for her. Marry the Viscount Jaguer? When she, along with every other member of the French aristocracy, was already too well acquainted with his disgraceful reputation?

He was a scoundrel and a pirate, a hoodlum who had squandered his criminal youth on the sordid backstreets of Marseilles. Everyone knew perfectly well that his mother had been little more than a prostitute when his spineless father had risked a vastly depleted family fortune to marry her. Lucky she had given him a clever son or the family would surely have languished in ruin.

And Alix knew it was true. Despite his lack of any other attributes worthy of her approval, she realized it was no use denying his cleverness. No brigadier, be he English, French or Berber, could rival the Viscount's bravery. He had made his fortune on the sea and was as much a seasoned paramour as he was a sailor.

In low France, of course, such bedroom credentials guaranteed him respect with every country count and slumming Dauphin alike. But to be married to a practicing adulterer—to be his unsatisfactory spouse—would earn her far less esteem.

Alix was both too cunning and too beautiful to ever find herself in such circumstances. If a dark death proved her only escape, then she would go to it happily. Better to embrace a wolf than an unfaithful husband, even if she _had_ in fact been betrothed to him ever since her father had recognized his rising popularity among the mutinous working class.

The ultimatum was clear. Tonight would be her last chance to flee the unbearable future her father had arranged for her. There was no going back.

To her detriment, she had chosen to leave on the night of the full moon. Cruel, close, and golden in its dramatic autumn perigee, she felt that superstitions millennia older than she remained as relevant as ever. Even in the Age of Reason, a full moon was a disastrous omen.

Yet she continued undeterred, her feet propelling her forward with blind defiance. If she could reach the stable, then her plan was sure to succeed. Taking the fastest horse and the lightest saddle, she would reach Alsace before noon. From there, she would escape to Germany.

Alix had friends in Germany. She had been educated at a reputable boarding school in Switzerland for most of her adolescence, and had been outfitted there with enough affluent friends to keep her well cared for even without her father's aid.

That was the plan anyway—that she reach neighboring Alsace, pass the night in a local tavern, and then finally arrive at the stately urban home of her schoolmate's wealthy family in Frankfurt am Main.

Once there, the next step of the plan was to woo and marry one of the aforementioned schoolmate's three elder brothers. She had already met the eldest of the handsome young banking heirs when he had ventured to visit his sister abroad. Even then he had taken a liking to Alix's soft, dark hair and willowy curves. Taking him to bed would be as easy as brushing out her hair.

Alix stretched out her arms in the darkness, extending the oil lamp ahead of her as far as she could reach. A peculiar stillness had settled over the plain. The tall grass stooped to either side of the path, lifeless and inanimate in the windless night. Wary of her bad luck, she glanced up at the moon. The air was so still and hot that she could just barely perceive the faint shadows of its cratered surface in the clarity of the undisturbed atmospheric ether. Ominous clouds gathered above the horizon.

She continued down the path beside the creek, suppressing her fear with rage. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but she brushed it aside with the back of her hand. This was not the time for weakness. She had her future to think of. Once she married into the class of the newly wealthy, her title would seem exotic and alluring. It would excuse her every eccentricity. She could be assertive and autonomous, and everyone would humor her—the Comtessa, the Frenchwoman, the libertine. In Germany, she would find the freedom she longed for.

Suddenly, the heat broke. The entire countryside lit up from horizon to horizon as a bolt of lightning cleaved the sky. Her breath caught in her throat, and she struggled to move faster along the path. The stable was too near for her to turn back. Her fingers curled tight and white knuckled around the lamp in her gloved hands as she braced herself for the storm.

Her courage, however, threatened to waver. She was a brave girl, but she had seldom been permitted to wander alone at night, least of all in the middle of a storm. This immediate, visceral fear was unfamiliar to her. She was desperately afraid of the lightning, but this was not the time to tremble at the wrath of nature. She had to escape. Her freedom and her ideals depended on her success.

And yet…and yet there was something else. It was something besides the lightning and the thunder that left her with an uncanny apprehensive feeling. She tried but failed to name it. It was an oppressive feeling, like despair—like someone else's despair—as acrid and suffocating as breathing the hot, damp air exhaled by a pack of panting hounds.

She broke into a run. The air was hot and heavy. She could feel stray raindrops bursting on her face as she tore down the path, lamplight bobbing ahead of her to light the way. Another bolt of lightning split the sky. She fell forward onto her knees, shrieking as the lamp tumbled down the sloped path into the waterlogged creek bank.

"Mon Dieu!" she shouted, her hands working along the terrain, scraping in a panic against the clay as she reached for the lost lantern. When at last she retrieved it, she could make no sense of what had caused her to stumble. The path was clear of debris, and there was no other obstacle in sight.

But then it happened again. As the storm blew in, she could hear the bitter hiss of wind whipping through the tall grass and the growl of distant thunder. Rain fell in heavy sheets as the swollen creek began to spill over the bank. Once again, a flash of lightning illuminated the field. And once again, she flew forward into the dirt. This time the lamp shattered beneath her weight. She could see her blood-streaked forearm in the lantern's fading light. The exposed flame was soon extinguished by the rain.

"Who are you?" she cried, "What do you want from me? I have money—leave me alone! You'll have it all!"

But her pleas were unlikely to persuade a beast. Le Garou recognized her vulnerability. He knew that this evening's prey would prove low risk and high reward. While all fine young women tasted sultry in the dark, he anticipated this one would do more than merely assuage his hunger for her. Already he could smell her—the blood on her quivering body, the salt of dried sweat on skin so smooth and white.

And yet the familiarity of the scent arrested him.

That voice—though shrill and panicked—drew his attention.

And then, as he made a final approach, teeth lurching for her thin, pale throat, a vague recognition seized hold of him.

These had been unfit hunting grounds. This had been an unwise night to stalk the countryside. He should have expected this—that she would attempt an escape—and he should have cleared the region before hunting. Now she would never return.


	2. Chapter 2

**10:00 a.m.**  
**Deuss du Devaire, France**  
**15 May, 1784**

Twenty-year-old Luc du Croix stared blankly ahead of him, his unfocused gaze aimed in the general direction of the portrait of the Count's silly little daughter, proudly displayed above the hearth of his country chateau.

"She's beautiful, isn't she Jâguer?"

He nodded reflexively, though his eyes were far too glazed over with sleep and hangover to allow for a proper assessment. It didn't matter anyway. Whatever the Count said would have to pass for the truth. No one crossed an aristocrat in his own home.

"She's coming back from Switzerland today. I send her to school there."

"Educated," he murmured, more for his own benefit than the Count's. Country brats were useless once educated. The Count of all people ought to have figured that out, given his own history with wives.

"Yes, educated," he said with a fond laugh. "This is the age of the Enlightenment after all, young man."

Luc muttered an unmemorable, garbled reply before making a lame effort to sit up straighter in his seat.

"I've been talking to people about you," said the Count with a brusque smile and a noncommittal wave of his hand. "Well, I'm sure you've realized…I mean, sir, that _is_ the reason that I've asked you here…to the country, and for the hunting as well of course, but—but nevertheless"—

He looked in vain for some sort of a reassuring reaction from the Viscount. Luc, however, was too preoccupied with his own throbbing headache to note the lapse in conversation.

"But nevertheless—"

"Yes?" he finally said, following a lengthy pause.

"Nevertheless, I had hoped that you would stay here for somewhat longer than the week."

"Longer?" Luc considered his options. For the security of the enviable fortune he was rapidly accumulating during his months at sea, it would behoove him to remain on the continent several months longer. If those months could be distributed evenly between friends, lovers, and the eccentric but wealthy parents of teenage country countesses, then perhaps staying at the chateau hunting, drinking, and swapping stories would work out squarely with his schedule.

"Yes, longer," said the Count. "Long enough, at least, until I can…until I can—_acquaint _you, with my daughter. My daughter Alix. The one in the…in the _portrait_, Jâguer!" he hissed, betraying his impatience as Luc's head bobbed forward limply.

"Right. Pretty portrait," he murmured distractedly. "Pretty, educated country—country—sweetheart."

"Yes sir, my daughter Alix the Comtessa Deuss du Dèvaire."

"That's right!" shouted a piercing, juvenile voice streaking down the hallway outside the drawing room. Luc cringed in agony as the shrill stammering continued. "Papa I missed you! You'll never believe what we saw coming in through the county—"

"Alix, there's—someone here—I want you to—_Alix_—"

"Wolves! It must have been wolves. I've never seen so much blood. I swear it slaughtered a whole _flock_ of sheep. They say the shepherdess died as well, although surely there would be no identifying a body following an attack like that. Can you _imagine_—"

"Alix, please," he growled insistently. The little spitfire's meandering monologue finally teetered to a halt as she turned to face her unexpected guest.

"Oh," she whispered under her breath. She made a weak attempt to compensate for her general carelessness with an uncoordinated curtsy. "Good afternoon."

"Alix, this is Luc du Croix, the Viscount du Jâguer. And likewise, this is my daughter Alix—my _thirteen_-year-old daughter Alix," he said emphatically, adding an apologetic smile.

"I, well, I'm fourteen now," she murmured. The Count shot her a disapproving glare, at which Luc immediately sat up at attention. The poor girl was just clumsy. She hardly deserved her father's wrath all on his account.

Despite his hangover, he did his best to assume a polite, perhaps even over-friendly mask of diplomacy to appease the Comtessa's exacting father.

"Well, Alix, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said, smiling. "Why don't you sit here beside me? You look like you could use a drink."

"Sir"—

"No, no I insist. Come here."

With a shy but endearing smile, Alix paced across the room to the couch over which Luc had sprawled himself half an hour earlier. She glanced appreciatively at his long limbs, swarthy complexion, and handsome, grownup features.

"I'm Alix," she said stupidly.

"Yes, I realize."

She blushed furiously.

"You're a pretty girl, Alix," he added with a charitable smile. It was true, despite her awkward little figure and underdeveloped charm, even he could see a wealth of potential behind the years of her negligent upbringing.

"Alix?" growled the Count.

"Oh—right—thank you," she said. "You're—er—you're quite handsome as well, sir." She blushed again.

Flustered by her gracelessness, the Viscount Jâguer found that he was beginning to lose his patience. Playing the dashing suitor to a wealthy country countess would have been one matter. But pandering to a foolish little child with skinny arms and the body of an eleven-year-old boy was a far more taxing enterprise.

"Now Alix," said the Count cautiously, sensing Luc's aversion to her childish awe, "why don't you run to your room and see to it that your things are unpacked properly?"

"Yes, and then we'll see about that drink, won't we?" the Viscount muttered under his breath while pinching the bridge of his nose. He tried to cover the agitated expression that had seized hold of his face throughout his conversation with the poor, transparent girl.

Alix's lip quivered in unspoken protest as she looked once more toward the Viscount Jâguer, his dexterous adolescent body bent at the middle and sunken deep in the plush couch. He looked uninterested in her father's plans, especially those that concerned her. And yet, to spite it all, he seemed nonetheless interested in her individually. She felt what she thought was an instant connection with him—one that channeled between them whenever his dark eyes locked on hers.

But then the connection faded. She stood up and quietly backed out of the room, though her thoughts remained fixed to the floor at his feet. He was the most courteous, most amazing, most interesting thing she had ever seen—and he had called her pretty! Pretty was practically beautiful, wasn't it? Deeply impressed, and even more deeply smitten, the lanky little Comtessa du Dévaire skipped up the stairs two at a time, more impatient than ever to see her father's guest again.


	3. Chapter 3

**9:00 p.m.**  
**15 May, 1784**  
**Deuss du Dévaire, France**

The Count looked a little too tired to warrant the hour. Luc marveled at the changes in his once infamous character. It was truly astounding what ten years and a hopeless daughter could do to a single man.

Not, of course, to say that the Count had ever _really_ been single. Everyone in France knew well enough that he could never tolerate keeping to himself for very long. With the troublesome girl off at school abroad, he had doubtlessly enjoyed all sorts of enticing company in his grand chateau. There really was no mistaking what had prompted him to educate his only daughter, and by no means had it been the Enlightenment.

Well, Luc could respect a man with promiscuous sexual interests. He had been raised among them. With a mother whose exploits had been the talk of an entire continent, and a titled father who had selfishly plucked her from the throes of infamy only to ruin her with sophistication, Luc had seen life from every angle. The seedy underbelly of society, for him at least, held a much less hypocritical appeal. If the Count was willing to own up to his bad reputation—if he was even willing to embrace it—then he was a man the Viscount Jâguer was glad to hold in high esteem.

But, captivating though he once had been, evidently the Count had lost his touch. The clock had barely struck nine o'clock and already he was practically snoring over his roast turkey. Alix, naturally, looked absolutely mortified.

"Your father must be a very busy man."

Alix struggled to manage a convincing nod.

"We're just children—you and I, Alix—and we're incapable of understanding the exhaustion of adulthood. No, for us, the evening hours are the only ones for which we're ever truly awake."

Alix nodded wordlessly.

"Well then, what do you do at school? To keep yourself awake, I mean. When you're not hard at work with your studies, what do you and your schoolmates play at?"

She glanced up at him from under lowered eyelashes, and the Viscount—though arguably already thoroughly inebriated—felt his breath catch in his lungs at the sight of her. But the illusion faded quickly as she opened her awkward little mouth to reply.

"Er—_some_times we play at cards. Although, it isn't like, or well it's not like we're supposed to. It isn't allowed or anything. But anyway, sometimes we do it in secret. We gamble."

"Are you a good gambler? A good bluffer, maybe?" he asked, bored but nonetheless content to chat idly.

"No, no I'm never very successful. See…I'm in the habit of—well I've got—I always laugh when I'm lying. Either that or I, well…I stammer."

"Oh," said the Viscount, "stammering is a very, very lamentable vice. All young ladies ought to be cured of it straightaway or they will never catch themselves a good lover."

Alix's pretty, soft cheeks flushed a dark scarlet.

"So you've had a lover then, have you Alix?" he asked, hardly bothering to disguise the sarcasm of his tone.

"I—"she laughed as she narrowed her gaze to meet his. "Well, yes I have. There was one…once."

"You're bluffing," he muttered, surprised. "You say you laugh when you bluff, don't you?"

"I laugh all the time; I stammer all the time too," she insisted. "It gets worse when I'm lying but—"she laughed uncomfortably, "I'm—well, I'm not."

"You're not?" He appraised her skeptically. "What was he like then? The lover?"

"He?—oh, yes, _he_…was very handsome."

"All ladies say that of their lovers, and all schoolgirls know perfectly well how to describe a man's appearance. If you want me to believe you, well then I want to know something a little less…_mundane_."

The poor, nonplussed girl blushed again.

"You mean to say that I _should_ know something a little less mundane?"

The Viscount nodded grimly.

Alix glanced at her feet, her thoughts drilling in clever spirals through notion after notion. What did she know about men? Clearly she would _like_ to know more—she would like to know anything at all about them really. But the Viscount was easily as close as she had ever come to one that was neither an animal nor a relative. And his question had struck her as a challenge. She felt there had been no choice but to lie. Lying further could certainly do her no more harm.

"What if, Viscount Jâguer, I were to tell you that my lover wasn't—well—a _man_, per se?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"What if I were to say my lover was a schoolmate? A girl in the year ahead of me. And…and if I were to say that we, well, that we _kissed_?"

"To that, Comtessa, I would offer you a good, stiff drink. You kissed her, you say?"

"Well, yes."

"And what was it like?"

"It was…it was like—see, now—it was…"she struggled blindly for more detail. "How about that drink, then, sir?"

"How about it!" replied Luc. He could scarcely contain his laughter. It seemed he had underestimated the little countess. This story was more than enough to keep him well entertained. He pulled the silver flask of brandy from his belt and poured well over half of its contents into the countess's empty wine glass, then tipped it toward her, took a generous sip himself, before sliding it down the table to where she sat impatient with curiosity.

She clutched the glass gingerly in clumsy hands and then raised it to her lips. With a defiant smirk, she tipped it toward her, swallowing every last drop in several gulps despite her steadily evolving expression of disgust.

"Do you like it? It's a man's drink, for a man's taste."

"You think I've a man's taste?"

"In women, perhaps."

"Was it a very vulgar thing to say?" she asked, less interested in a proper evaluation than his personal opinion. "What I mean is, are you very much disappointed in me?"

"Yes, it was a vulgar thing to say. But no, I am hardly disappointed in you."

She offered a dumb smile and reached for her father's half empty wine glass.

"You know, Viscount Jâguer, I think that tonight I should like to get myself very, very drunk here with you."

He again arched an eyebrow and slid his elbows forward onto the table toward her.

"Is that really advisable, Alix?"

She shrugged, downed the glass, and then insisted he share more of his mysterious man's drink. Luc, too, shrugged and complied, too amused to stop her.

"You had better be a cheap drunk," he said, "because I plan on consuming the share I'm due, madamemoiselle, and your sobriety is certainly not going to deter me."

Alix laughed gamely and reached for the flask. Her little blue eyes sparkled with merriment, offset attractively by the glow of her embarrassed, flushed complexion. Luc found it difficult to control his own laughter when listening to hers. She was too young to comprehend the implications of his reputation—young enough to adore and idolize him without the complications of sensuality.

In fact, as she continued to entertain him with her silly stories of schoolgirl lust and loathing, it occurred to him that this was perhaps his first conversation with a female since his childhood in which no mention of his mistresses or his wealth proved the dominating subject.

Tonight he resolved to enjoy himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**9:00 a.m.**  
**27 September, 1790**  
**Deuss du Dévaire, France**

Six years' absence had likely changed her, but Luc knew her feelings had stayed the same. He had left her furious, demoralized, and self-doubting. The haunting image of her shame and disappointment lingered in his memory, and he regretted that he had left her that way without returning to alleviate the pain of her embarrassment.

But what difference would it have made? She had been just a teenager, small and naïve and desperate to please him. He had no choice but to deny her.

Still, she had taken the rebuff unnecessarily hard—citing not her age, nor her drunken advances for his refusal, but rather his supposed "disgust" at the idea of having her. Nothing he had said could change her impressionable young mind.

Neither could six years' absence do that for which his reassurance had failed. His last recourse was his still-intact charm. Perhaps he could persuade her to again become the little girl who had been so ill-advisedly taken with him. There had to be some way. Times had changed. Surely she must realize that.

With a cursory glance at his pocket watch, he began to pace the length of the room. The eyes of the young countess followed him from one wall to the other. He paused to stare at her beseechingly.

"You remember who I am?"

She nodded reluctantly.

"Where is your father?"

"He's coming," she said. "Don't worry."

"You're very beautiful, you know."

Her incredulous snort of laughter revealed her feelings on the subject.

"Alix," said the Viscount meaningfully, "you were _always_ beautiful."

"If you please, Viscount Jâguer, I would very much prefer it if you could refrain from addressing me so frankly."

She folded her arms across her chest defensively before purposefully directing her gaze elsewhere. Luc struggled to recapture her attention.

"I'm sorry I offended you," he muttered as he raked his fingers through his hair. "I only meant to remind you of—"

"To remind me of _nothing_," she snapped, interrupting him before his memories could revive an incident best left forgotten. "And if you can manage it, sir, I would rather we waited for my father in companionable silence."

"Silence?"

She nodded mutely.

Luc grudgingly acquiesced and then continued to pace the room. His eyes passed over the portrait of the countess displayed above the hearth. He noticed immediately the modifications added to accommodate the beauty of her maturity—from her sharp and precise adult features, to the grace that had been absent before.

Still, it hardly did her justice. The staid aristocrat that it depicted only physically resembled the spirited young woman before him.

Persuading his betrothed to change her mind about him—particularly given his six-year-old affront against her—would prove more challenging than he had anticipated. Most women succumbed easily to the tempting combination of his wealth and charm.

Alix, however, was in need of neither.

Already wealthy, his money was meaningless to her, and her looks were such as would guarantee her a willing husband with or without her father's money. Luc reevaluated his options hastily. Surely there must be some way he could convince her to reconsider her low opinion of him.

But changing her mind would be selfish. Even if she abhorred him for the _wrong_ reasons, she was nonetheless right to abhor him. She was lovely, she had always been lovely, and he would like to be able to prove that to her somehow. Luc was beginning to realize there was no way she would ever let him.

Luc, after all, had secrets far less acceptable to his would-be bride than a legacy of jilted mistresses and a nearly-criminal past. Were he to remove his numerous indiscretions from the equation, her respect would remain just as inaccessible as it did while she was under the impression that he was simply the average rakishly good-looking outlaw. But there was more truth to his monstrous reputation than modern sensibility would allow.

"The Viscount Jâguer!" cried the Count as he entered the drawing room, dispelling the mounting tensions within. His daughter shot up from her seat, her hands coiled tightly into fists.

"Papa, I—"

"Count du Devaire, it's a pleasure to see you again," said Luc, strategically interrupting the girl.

"The pleasure is all mine," replied the Count. Luc managed a quick bow before refocusing his attention on the unpredictable Alix. "But please, please enough of the meaningless courtesies. You're as good as family now."

Luc laughed uneasily.

"Papa, I believe there has been some mistake. You see, I was supposed to have another year—or, rather—_this_ was not supposed to happen so…so _soon_."

Her nervous stammering, Luc noticed, was a habit that had failed to fade with time. Yet listening to her, watching her flushed face twist up with annoyance, he realized that even the stammering was charming.

"Alix," said the Count hesitantly, "you have always known this was coming. I'm sure the Viscount will not mistake your nerves for any want of compliance. We _all_ remember just how much you were looking forward to this day on the Viscount's _last_ visit."

Alix flushed a dark shade of red and turned her face away from both men.

"See?" continued the Count, his self-satisfied smile matching his imaginary triumph. "Everything is quite in order."

"But papa," murmured the crestfallen girl, "papa, I've only just finished school this spring and I—and I—I _can't_ go through with this. Not _yet,"— and not ever_, she thought, glaring at the Viscount from the corner of her eye—"and I know it means so much to you that you see me married. But I'm so well off already. Financially, I have no outstanding concerns whatsoever, and then of course there is this house and the estate to consider, and that's all because of you, Papa! And…and…and the Viscount _himself_ must understand me. In fact I'm sure he does!"

Alix turned to face him with a renewed spark to her otherwise miserable expression. She reached out as though to seize him, reconsidered, and then simply moved to stand close beside him instead.

"What are you getting at?" he whispered, instinctively suspicious of her unwarranted smiles.

"You'll tell him, won't you sir? Tell him that no young person ought to marry so soon after finishing school. You yourself were able to exhaust your youth as you saw fit, so why should my father deny me the same right?"

"_Exhaust_ my youth?" said the Viscount, laughing. His smile faded as soon as the implications of her suggestion began to sink in. "Count, I can't vouch for the last ten years of my life"—he directed a grave look at the comtessa as he spoke—"and the last thing I would do would be to advise you to allow your daughter the freedoms that my father allowed me."

"What can he possibly _mean_?" insisted Alix. She distanced herself from him, repulsed by his unforeseen treachery. "Six years ago, Viscount Jâguer, you defended your lifestyle with such vigor that I knew immediately—even then—that it was the life for me. And now you're changing your opinion of it along with your opinion of your_self_? I doubt this change reflects any shard of wisdom you've gained in the past six years, so much as it reflects a double standard!"

"Alix!" warned the Count.

"No, no she's quite right," said the Viscount, never once breaking eye contact with his accuser. "But I would only ask that the girl consider the mistakes my freedom has allowed me to make—mistakes I would have avoided without so much freedom. And if she considers them—_all _of them, even if I am unable to explicitly enumerate the nature and number of my mistakes—then perhaps she won't be so opposed to the idea of marriage…especially to one so wary of the misadventures of youth."

"That's _hardly_ fair," seethed Alix.

_You _hardly _understand_, thought Luc. The silly little thirteen-year-old he recalled from his last visit remained as present and impertinent as before, disguised only by the face and figure of an adult.

"Are you honestly telling us, Viscount, that you're going to begrudge me the moral bankruptcy that you have so unrepentantly enjoyed for the past decade?"

Luc nodded wordlessly. He had humored her long enough, but it was evident that her resolve would never waver. There was no way that someone both so naïve and so impulsive would ever succumb to persuasion alone.

Alix glared at him, her lips pursed and her expressive blue eyes narrowed. She turned unceremoniously and stormed out of the room, leaving her bewildered father to provide all the unnecessary explanations. But the old man only shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as he, too, left the room.

"I wouldn't worry about her if I were you. Women can be like this, you know, to test their boundaries. But it will all work out in the end."

Luc forced a smile for the sake of the retreating Count before collapsing onto the couch of the drawing room.

It insulted his pride to hear his own useless voice responding to Alix's protests. He had hoped that she would be more responsive to his advice, or at least more observant of the changes in his character. Six years' time had done a great deal to alter her appearance, but it had done a lot to change him as well.

He could recall too clearly the way he had viewed himself six years earlier. Despite suffering what traditional wisdom would term an affliction, he had enjoyed the changes the full moon caused in him. If "the curse" was intended as a form of punishment for his reckless living, then the lesson was lost on him. After all, if all punishments were so pleasurable, then he would welcome each one with open arms.

But time had destroyed the romantic illusion his imagination had made of his metamorphosis. Once the monster's horrific deeds grew heavy on his conscience, there was no going back to the naivety with which he had embraced his midnight self.

He recognized his curse—that he was a killer, an anomaly of nature who feasted on the most vulnerable members of society. But it was overwhelming to consider the complex duality of his self-contradictory identity. Where did the beast end, and where did he begin? He felt most at home among the very population he preyed on. The daring sailor who made his fortune selling foreign goods to the poor was the same man who stalked their neighborhoods at midnight. As a beast, he was more dangerous to the poor than the aristocrats who exploited them.

For one morning each month when he awoke alone and naked in the countryside, his memories of the evening before a blur of animal impulses, he thought of the contradictions that made him who and what he was. There was nothing he could do to recover his compromised humanity—to untangle the wolf from the man. But thinking such thoughts was enough to distract his mind from the inevitable pulsing headache.

Alix was too young and too eager to experience the world. She was hardly even self-aware, much less aware of the internal struggles of those surrounding her. But Luc could forgive her curiosity and impatience. Contrary to what she must believe, he _did_ understand her. He understood her well enough to foresee the dangerous path to adulthood she was bound to take.

Though he doubted her recklessness would be comparable to his own, he still pitied her. He had hoped she would agree to marry to him, even knowing he would stray from her—not as a man, but as a wolf. He could keep his distance well enough to guard his secret—he had done it for years with no slips or suspicion—and, meanwhile, she would be safe, both from him and from the others.

But her reluctance had settled the matter for him. Alix would have to confront the world on her own. He would have liked to have helped her, but maybe she was right. Maybe she didn't need his help.

In any case, Luc found that he was extraordinarily relieved for that night's full moon.


	5. Chapter 6

VI

Victor Devries admired his reflection in the mirror. Dressed in gold silk culottes and an elegant white shirt, he looked unrecognizable even to himself. The day before, he had shaved his beard in a very different hotel room with the use of a dirty, broken mirror. He ran one hand over the coarse stubble on his cheeks and considered how simple it was for a man to transform himself into something he was not.

"In this age, Camille," he said to the young woman seated on the bed behind him, "Appearance has become everything. A man can assume any form he wishes. All he has to do is shave his beard and change his clothes, and _voila_. He might as well be a different species."

"It's rather remarkable," said Camille. Her long blonde hair covered her naked breasts, and she had bent her bare legs beneath her.

"But men are equals beneath it all. That's the secret, my darling."

The girl looked distractedly over his shoulder. He could see she was bored. She had been an adequate lover—a little soft and overripe, but he had taken pleasure in her company. Lovemaking made him feel ferocious and primal, like an animal. In life, he was a quiet, pensive man. Victor fancied himself a writer and member of the emerging proletarian intellectual elite. But in the bedroom, he felt like the man he was meant to be.

With this mission, he would finally become this man—this true, animal man—in every aspect of his life. He was sure of this. By infiltrating the most influential French political circles, he could disseminate the radical ideology of the men who had recruited him, men who had awakened in him the desire for liberty and equality.

Victor paid the girl and watched her as she left the hotel room. The night before, he had been mesmerized by the way her hips swayed, the way she smiled coquettishly at him over her shoulder. Now she hurried past him, slamming the door behind her. It amazed him how women were naturally such masters of pretense. As proud as he was of his transformation, he would never transform himself as well as a woman.

Well, not without the help of the full moon at least.

Victor gathered his belongings and left the hotel. The streets of Paris were crowded with wretched old men and women, hunched over with age and wear. Their bodies were ruined and weak. He knew this would never be his fate.

The October sun was bright and intense—an unusually protracted summer season—and he could feel the sweat beading on his brow as he moved down the street toward the Café Haiti, where he hoped to find himself among likeminded individuals. He knew, of course, who would be awaiting him there. Already he could picture her. He could see her winsome smile, the heavily lidded eyes squinted, poring over some lengthy treatise on the rights of human beings or a novel. Voltaire, perhaps. _Candide_, her favorite work.

"Madame Garou," he said when he saw her. She glanced up at him distractedly.

"You're late."

"I'm very sorry."

Her expression darkened. She nodded to the opposite end of the café where an earnest-looking elderly gentleman sat with his hands folded in his lap. He was tapping his foot impatiently against the stone floor, looking desperately out of place.

"There is your target, Devries."

"What should I know about him?"

She shrugged, frowning slightly. "Some aging aristocrat with a missing daughter."

"You think he might know something?"

Madame Garou leaned across the table and lowered her voice. "His future son-in-law was the Viscount Jaguer. Obviously we have a vested interest in the match."

"And the girl?"

"No one. A way in. That's all. It's time our kind infiltrated the aristocracy. How else will anything get done? The world isn't quite as ruthless as Voltaire portrays it. And in the meantime, politics is too slow. Someone powerful needs to provoke action."

Victor nodded. He stood up and crossed the room. The old man looked anxious, his eyes wide and frightened. He made no move to object when Victor slid into the seat across from his, but his foot continued to tap against the floor in nervous agitation.

"You seem to be missing someone," said Victor.

"Yes," said the old man, wearily, "My daughter. She vanished a week ago without a trace. Her betrothed—the Viscount…well…you must know—is beside himself with worry. And I myself still can't quite accept it. That she's gone, I mean. Jaguer said you could help."

"I might be able to help."

"But what could you do? What could anyone do?" The count wrung his hands nervously. He bowed his head over the table, unable to maintain eye contact with the stranger.

"Let's start with the basics, Monsieur. Is there anyone who may have wanted to kidnap your daughter, or any reason she may have wanted to escape?"

"She wasn't exactly eager to be wed"

"I see," said Victor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Madam Garou stood and left the cafe. He cleared his throat. "She may have organized her own kidnapping?"

"Well," he said, pausing, "It may not have been a kidnapping." His expression was punctuated with regret. He closed his eyes as he continued to speak, as if the sight of so many young Parisians in the cafe would dissuade him from confessing his role in forcing his daughter's disappearance. "Jaguer's reputation...my daughter is a proud girl. Educated, modern. She has friends abroad, and she's resourceful. But-"

"But?" asked Devries.

"But she is impulsive. And young. Naive-she doesn't understand what she's done or what could happen to her." The count resumed wringing his hands. His eyes opened wearily, their lids heavy with fatigue. "She's too foolish to recognize what the political unrest in France means for our family. You're a gentleman, sir-you must understand..."

Victor nodded.

"I do." He fought a smile. "Yes. I do."


End file.
